The Last Talisman

by Licia Troisi

  Nihal said nothing.

  For a long while, they stayed there silent beside the tomb. Sennar was the first to speak. “Nothing pure can survive in this world,” he said, unsure if he was speaking of himself, or of Nihal, or of the friend they’d just laid to rest. “You may have been the only one capable of saving the Overworld. Your heart was true and your hands pure.”

  He stood, carrying Nihal up with him. “It’s time we go. I hear footsteps.”

  They set back out on the trail.

  In silence they traversed the dark, in single file, their senses alert. On several occasions, the sound of footsteps or a suspicious rustling forced them to duck into the woods and take cover among the bushes. They were tired of killing, and in no mood to fight. To Nihal, even her sword, batting against her leg as they crept through the forest, seemed more of a nuisance than ever. Sennar, meanwhile, was wounded and, with all his power drained, could treat himself only with the few herbs they’d gathered for Laio.

  After three days’ travel, they came upon a wide gravel bank lined with sharp rocks: the first sign of the Ludanio, the great river that sliced the Land of Night in two. In the past, it must have been a grand, booming river, but now it was almost completely dried out, a two-mile stretch of rocky riverbed. They traversed it as quickly as possible. Out in the open, they made for easy prey.

  Before long, they came to the river itself. Its murky, malodorous waters oozed downstream, tracing a shoreline of dead grass. It reminded Nihal of the rank, sludge-filled river that surrounded Salazar, the river she’d jumped in on the day of her father’s death. Rather than stop and rest, they decided to push forward, crossing to the other side of the trickling current. This time, they were forced to hike out in the open for an entire day. When at last they reached the sparse-looking trees that had once been the Forest of Mool, they both let out a sigh of relief.

  They moved steadily through the forest, resting only when their legs tired. On several occasions, while one of the two slept, the muted sound of voices and footsteps forced them to pick up and move on. The entire dispiriting journey was made in silence, but it was not the sort of silence that came from the lack of something to say. They were silent because they knew they shared the same suffering, and that to speak of it would bring no comfort.

  For ten straight days, they picked their way through the forest, and with each mile, the woods grew thicker, a sea of dead trees and dry thorn bushes, though they were no longer disturbed by the sudden sounds of voices and footsteps. Their enemies, it seemed, had gone hunting elsewhere.

  The darkness, the perpetual, insufferable shade, ate away at their nerves. The air seemed pregnant with a stale, closeted odor, as if the blackness were growing like mold over everything around them. Which is why, as they stepped back into the light, it felt as if their lungs were reopening. On the tenth day, they noticed a faint glow in the distance: a pale, paradoxical dawn rising in the west rather than the east.

  “We’re almost at the border,” said Sennar. “We should check the talisman.”

  Gradually as they advanced, the glow became more intense, lending shape to the world around them: the sharp outline of trees against the sky, now and then a vague hint of color. It felt like a rebirth, the world once again new and wondrous. Even the surrounding desolation seemed more pleasant in the light. The forest began to come alive, as if waking from a long sleep. Patches of green appeared among the yellowed ferns. Leafy branches rose up alongside the dried fronds.

  By the next morning, the glow was all but radiant, the forest all but flourishing. They were pacing along in silence, Sennar in front and Nihal behind, when the sorcerer stopped short.

  “What is it?” Nihal asked, her hand already resting on her sword.

  Sennar turned. On his face was the first smile in what seemed like ages. “Wait here,” he said, and darted off into the bushes.

  “What’s going on?” Nihal asked again as she drew her sword.

  “Don’t worry,” came the sound of a distant voice.

  Nihal stood there alone in the woods, clueless and clenching her sword, staring anxiously into the bushes where Sennar had disappeared. When she could no longer hear him rustling about, she began calling out to him. But there was no response.

  “Sennar!” she shouted again. “Sennar!”

  Just then she saw him step out of the brush. His cheeks were lined with scratches, and the backs of his hands were red with cuts. He held them cupped against his chest.

  Nihal ran up to meet him. “Care to tell me what’s going on?” she asked, irritated.

  Sennar smiled again and slowly opened his palms. Nihal saw something bright red.

  “Huh?”

  “Has it been that long? Don’t you remember when we used to go picking them in the forest?” Sennar asked. “Raspberries!”

  At the sight of the fruit, Nihal was flooded with memories. She looked at Sennar and saw him as she had when they’d first met, long before they’d set off on any crazed journey. She placed a hand on his cheek. “I don’t ever want you to harm yourself for me again,” she said, tracing a finger over one of his scratches, and then wrapping her arms around him.

  They sat to enjoy the raspberries. As the sweet juice with a whisper of tanginess filled his mouth, Sennar felt a long-absent serenity lighten his limbs. He’d lost all hope. He’d sunk to the very bottom of pain and suffering, but now he felt it was time to reemerge, to remind himself of their purpose. The world he’d been thrown into wasn’t perfect, but neither was he—certainly not anymore. And yet there was always someone or something that needed saving, that didn’t deserve to disappear. No, he couldn’t let hate overcome him. It was conviction he needed, the refusal to give in. If only he could find the strength to believe, maybe then they could truly build a new era from the ruins of the crumbling present.

  He glanced over at Nihal, who sat eating raspberries in silence.

  “Don’t give in,” he said suddenly. “I know it seems hopeless right now, but if you and I don’t keep up our spirits, then who will?”

  Nihal stopped eating. “I can’t help but think of Laio, of everything we did together. I just miss him so much. …”

  Sennar lowered his head. “Laio died having achieved his goal. He protected you. He faced his fear and became a warrior.” He raised his eyes to meet Nihal’s. “We must push on and accept the suffering. We have to. If for nothing else, then for Laio. When you left Thoolan, you made a choice—you chose life. Don’t undermine your own decision.”

  In that moment, Nihal told the sorcerer of how she’d killed Vraśta and of her run-in with Fammin on the way to the sanctuary. “I’m tired of all the blood,” she lamented. “Of death, of war. I’m tired of killing.” Her voice seemed almost tranquil.

  Sennar turned his eyes from hers and looked back at the ground. Nihal watched him, nervous. She too lowered her head. “If this whole thing weren’t so tragic, it would almost be humorous,” the sorcerer muttered.

  “What would?”

  Sennar looked up. “In the clearing, where Laio and I fought, I killed a man and the group of Fammin with him.” He hesitated. “Using forbidden magic.” Nihal’s head snapped to attention. “And it wasn’t for our defense. It was like I was possessed, like I needed to kill, to erase every last particle of them from this world.” The words came as if in a fit of anger, though his voice was tinged with melancholy. He knew Nihal would understand, that she shared his same suffering. “You see, while you were off discovering the horror of killing, I was busy learning how to enjoy it,” the sorcerer said, a bitter smile on his lips.

  Nihal stared back at him in silence.

  “So I’m an assassin now, too. But I won’t let that stop me from pushing forward, not as long as there’s someone out there who’s counting on me.”

  But his last few words were snuffed out by Nihal’s shoulder, as she threw her arms around him and
held on tight.

  Sennar returned the hug with equal force, caressing her back, tracing the supple curve of her spine downward, then up to her shoulders again, until his hands came to a stop, resting lightly on the back of her neck. In that moment, he needed her. He wanted to be as close to her as possible. He was leaning forward to kiss her when, suddenly, Nihal backed away and slipped from his arms. Her cheeks were flushed, and she hid her eyes shyly. Sennar, too, lowered his gaze and closed his eyes. Gradually, he regained his calm, banished his foolish thoughts, and popped a few raspberries into his mouth.

  “Let’s rest here for today,” Nihal said softly, her voice quivering, almost frightened.

  They finished eating in silence. For the first time in a month, they saw the sun set. Their eyes stayed fixed on the horizon until darkness closed the curtains on the awkward scene.

  That evening, after a sparse, quiet meal, they spread out their map and took stock of the situation. They were camped just outside the Land of Fire. From what Ido had described, they knew it was a land filled with hundreds of volcanoes, each one used as a forge for weapons. The cities were situated along the valleys, between one volcano and another, and were linked by bridges and tunnels.

  “All of the major thoroughfares will be under heavy surveillance and swarming with enemies,” Sennar observed.

  Nihal sighed. “So what can we do?”

  The sorcerer stared off into the darkness. “I have no idea.”

  After a brief silence, Nihal suddenly sat up straight. “The water supply system!” she exclaimed.

  Sennar cast her a look of bewilderment.

  “Ido told me about it,” she went on. “Dwarves from the Land of Rocks constructed it for the Land of Fire. It’s a network of underground canals that runs throughout the region and connects it with the Land of Rocks.”

  “But we don’t even know where the entrance is,” Sennar objected.

  “I’m afraid we do,” Nihal replied with a smile. She placed a finger on the map. “Ido showed me. It’s not far from the border of the Land of Night.”

  Sennar met her gaze. “So you mean we’ll have to go underground,” he muttered, his voice stripped of enthusiasm.

  “It’s the only way,” Nihal replied. “Or at least the safest.”

  Each night they’d been swapping shifts as lookout, but this time Sennar couldn’t hold up his end of the bargain. Between the exhausting journey and the rush of emotions from earlier that day, he was completely spent. Right in the middle of his turn, weariness took hold, and he drifted off into a peaceful sleep, his head against a tree trunk. But it was no night for dozing.

  Thankfully, Nihal’s sharp senses saved them. All of a sudden, she was woken by a vague perception of danger. She drew her sword in a flash and shook Sennar awake.

  “What is it?” he asked, yawning.

  “I’m not sure,” the half-elf answered. She pricked her ears. “Do you have your powers back?”

  “Not completely, but I think I can manage one or two trusty attack spells,” the sorcerer answered.

  Nihal leaped to her feet. “Run!” she shrieked, and the two took off at a sprint.

  The enemies burst into the open, their howls and clattering footsteps echoing through the forest. Nihal had no time to count them all, but she could make out at least three distinct voices and the sound of footsteps coming from four directions.

  She caught up to Sennar and grabbed his hand. She wasn’t going to lose him, not this time. Breathless, directionless they ran. But every path they chose seemed obstructed with thick clusters of bushes. However many there were, the enemies were Fammin, Nihal could sense it. And she was terrified by the thought of having to fight them, of having to kill yet again.

  Their shouting and stamping grew closer and closer. Nihal felt something grip her ankle. She lost hold of Sennar’s hand and fell to the ground. Sennar stopped short, just in time to see one of the Fammin wielding an axe over Nihal. But Nihal was too quick. She flung herself around, drew her sword, and pierced her enemy before the axe blade could strike. The Fammin crumpled sideways. Nihal sprang back to her feet. They were off again, sprinting.

  “How far do you think we are from the entrance to the underground water storage system of the Land of Fire?” Sennar asked as he ran.

  An arrow whizzed past just above their heads. In a split-second reaction, Nihal conjured a thin force field, just enough to provide minimal protection. “A mile or two, maybe,” she answered, breathing heavily.

  “We’ll never make it. …”

  The ground beneath them suddenly descended into a steep slope and the two went tumbling down. Nihal managed to catch hold of a thick root, grabbing Sennar as well. They could hear the sound of footsteps approaching above them.

  “I can try …” Sennar muttered through gritted teeth.

  “Try what?” Nihal gasped.

  “The Flying Spell,” the sorcerer answered.

  “Can you do it?”

  “We don’t have much of a choice. I’ll need to concentrate on the border between the two Lands and the spot you pointed to on the map.”

  Sennar squeezed his eyes shut. The footsteps grew closer, the howling more insistent. He recited the spell, and in an instant they vanished.

  When they reappeared, a torrent of light flooded the landscape—a desert plain, not a trace of plant life. After days and days of complete darkness, the sunlight was blinding.

  Nihal was the first to lift her eyelids. She turned and saw the forest behind them, almost a hundred feet back. She could hear Sennar panting at her side.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  The sorcerer caught his breath. “I’m alright for now, but that’s the last of my magic for today.”

  “We’re still not far enough away. We have to keep moving.” Nihal stood, pulling Sennar to his feet.

  They took off running again. It was even more dangerous here than where they’d just been. There were no obstacles, nothing to hide behind, just flat, parched land. They were easy targets.

  “I would have done better, but I couldn’t remember the exact location and I’m not familiar with the area,” Sennar apologized, breathless.

  “At least we got away from there!” Nihal shouted back.

  The wells leading down into the underground canals couldn’t have been too far off, but everywhere Nihal looked, objects blurred in the unbearable light and disappeared in a burst of heat. But then she noticed something take shape on the horizon—dense black clouds, towering mountains. Sennar limped along behind her.

  “How much longer?” the sorcerer asked.

  “I don’t have the slightest idea,” Nihal blurted, gasping for air.

  Suddenly, the ground opened up beneath her feet. She fell through, Sennar beside her, and the two plunged down into the dark. The last thing she felt was a sharp pang in the top of her skull, and then: nothing.

  The Descent

  In the city of rock, all things are the color of the mountain. Here, more than anywhere else, one may stand back and admire the ingenuity and magnificence of the dwarves’ art. Merry cries of festivity and the joyous shrieks of children fill the street, and each day at noon, the king sounds a bell, its clear tone ringing out to every corner of the city.

  Geography of the Overworld, paragraph XXXVII,

  from the Royal Library of Makrat

  21

  Ido’s Warriors

  Ido and his students arrived at the camp in a week’s time, only to discover that the front had been pushed back even farther. As expected, the young warriors were shaken. The blood, the wounded soldiers, the mounds of corpses, the swords blunted from overuse, the terror … all things that were unimaginable from within the protective cocoon of the Academy.

  “This is war, the filthy mess that you all took for some elegant fencing match while you were in the Academy. Ther
e are no rules on the battlefield; there’s no such thing as integrity. There’s life and there’s death. Let go of honor, banish all memory of your training manuals, but never forget what you’ve come here to fight for. Fix it in your minds,” he said to his students, as they stared back at him with petrified gazes.

  He even took his platoon on a tour of the nearby villages, through the heaps of smoking rubble and rotting corpses. He forced them to witness the despair of the survivors, the orphans, the widows, the vacant gazes of those who’d lost everything.

  Some averted their eyes. Some, late at night, sobbed in their tents. It was right. It was the only way. A warrior unmoved by the horrors of war and injustice would never be a true warrior.

  Ido was rough and emotionless when he saw one of his youngest students in tears. “Don’t cry. Reflect. Fill your heart with what you see. Let it invade you, demand understanding. Once you’ve reflected, ask yourselves what you can do to keep it from happening again. Then you’ll understand that a soldier doesn’t pick up a sword because his father placed it in his hand before he could even walk, or to prove himself stronger than the rest, or to impress a girl, but for a far nobler cause.”

  Ido was trying to instill in his students all that he’d learned from his long years of warring, and the effort filled him with purpose. It wasn’t a simple matter of training soldiers, but one of forming men—men who would one day serve as protectors of peace in the world, if it ever did come.

  Perhaps I need to do this more often. Perhaps I need to take on more students, he found himself thinking one day, surprised the thought would even cross his mind. Though perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised—wouldn’t it, after all, be one more way to atone for the mistakes of his past?

  Then came the hour of battlefield training, of every-man-for-himself combat. They needed to understand what it felt like to have enemies pouring in from all directions. Ido was nothing if not a rigorous instructor. He required the same commitment and dedication that he required of himself from his students. Between the constant combat training and strategy lessons, he wore them down to their last nerves. “The life of the warrior is not a life of rest and relaxation,” he’d say whenever a student complained.